


raw

by cryptidlibrarian



Series: Wayhaven Week 2020 [1]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: F/F, Prompt Fic, wayhaven week 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:20:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25255291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptidlibrarian/pseuds/cryptidlibrarian
Summary: Morag Locke doesn't start fights. She doesn't end them either. Violence is a vicious circle.Written for Wayhaven Week, for the Day 2 prompt "Feral/Tender".
Relationships: Female Detective/Natalie "Nat" Sewell
Series: Wayhaven Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1829665
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	raw

Wayhaven doesn’t have a lot of bar fights. This is for the most part maintained by the presence of Morag Locke, and the fact that there’s only one bar. A pub, actually, the Seagull’s Cry. If Morag Locke is there, you don’t start fights, because regardless of who starts it, Morag will end it. Few want to find themselves in a fight with her, even if by now there’s few who remember what the exact experience was even like.

Unfortunately, this is only applied to Wayhaven. Morag’s travelled out of the town before, spent time in the city, but in no one place long enough to develop and maintain the reputation required for such an understanding. Certainly not in the hole in the wall she’s found herself in tonight.

Nat was meant to join her later, when she was done with her meetings- all-day meetings that didn’t require a human liaison presence, and so Morag made use of the time in the city to hit up a couple old bookstores. Her duffel bag is now notably heavier with its new acquisitions, but she doesn’t trust the city to leave it in her pickup. A bag visible through the car window is just asking for a break-in. So she brought it in with her to the first bar she found, texted her location to Nat, and went to order a drink. Time to tuck herself in a quiet corner and read one of her new books until it’s time to return to the hotel room.

When Natalie Sewell arrives, barely half an hour later, she finds her girlfriend with a rebroken nose, blood streaming down into her mouth and giving her teeth a vicious and red gleam as she snarls and brandishes what looks like a broken pool cue. The men she’s standing off with seem as though they might be changing their mind about this interaction- there’s one on the floor, clutching his arm in a way that suggests a breakage, and two more being helped up by those in the crowd who haven’t entirely retreated.

“Oh bugger,” Nat murmurs. Her eyes flick over the other side of the bar- the bartender is in the corner by the phone, not yet talking but clearly calling  _ someone _ for help.

“Y’wanna start somethin’?” Morag bellows. “‘ave th’ fuckin’ guts t’see it through, fuckface.”

“Crazy bitch,” one of the men mutters, and then he yelps as she turns and lunges to swipe at him with the splintered end of the pool cue. Nat starts moving again immediately.

“Morag-”

Morag doesn’t seem to recognise her voice- because at the sound of someone approaching just out of her field of view makes her hot step back and the cue comes swinging around-

Morag freezes. Nat holds the end of the cue firmly in her hand- blocking it from impacting against her head. Her eyes are fixed on Morag’s, no attention paid to the reactions of the bar clientele. They can gasp and mutter, take advantage of the angry woman’s distraction to retreat. Nat’s concern is how Morag is staring at her, and doesn’t seem to entirely be processing what she’s seeing. She’s not attacking, but she’s not backing off either.

“Morag,” Nat repeats, with a soft smile, gently but firmly moving the cue down and to the side before letting go. “It’s okay.”

Morag’s lips tense. Then her eyes snap away from Nat. But in that motion, she seems to come back. She’s wary, attention back on the bar, and she shifts ever so slightly as though stepping between them and Nat.

“Get her out of here.” The voice comes from the bar- the bartender calling across to Nat. “Or I’m calling the cops.”

Morag’s shoulders tense, her hand starting to tighten on her weapon again, but the soft touch of Nat’s hand at her shoulder halts all of that.

“Let’s go, darling,” Nat murmurs. “Do you have your bag?” Her other hand reaches for the pool cue again, carefully tugging it from Morag’s grip and setting it against a nearby table. The crowd apparently knows the answer to that question, because a sudden shift happens- retreating to clear the path to a booth, where a book is lying on the table, a discarded coat is on the bench seat, and a bulky duffle bag is hidden in the shadows underneath.

They don’t have any further trouble as they leave the bar. It’s cold outside, and Nat makes Morag stop so she can help her put her coat back on. Morag’s face has closed. There’s still the remnants of her fury, tugging at the corners of her mouth, but there’s something about her expression that makes Nat feel all the more the need to be gentle. And, most tellingly, Morag doesn’t resist at all.

“Are you with me, dear?” Nat asks, when Morag’s coat is on, fussing over making sure the buttons are done up, keeping out the chill wind.

“...mm.” It’s a soft, raw sound. Nat leans in, and she wraps her arms around Morag’s shoulders, tugging her into a close, warm hug. And after a moment, Morag hugs her back, head pressing into the crook of Nat’s neck, hands clutching at the back of Nat’s coat, a drowning man clutching a life preserver.


End file.
